Be Free

Here, you can be free. Hakuna matata. Have no worries.

It is surprising how often you hear those words from complete strangers who welcome you into their homes or approach you at the market on a busy afternoon. Their names are not Timon and Pumba but Pili-Pili and Patrick, and other friendly business-seekers who understand that the fastest way to gain customers is through the Elmer glues of reciprocity (fast and non-toxic). For a small tip or at the purchase price of some artcrafts, they will guide you around town and offer you food samples and protection from other heckling vendors. The exchange is somewhat forced but welcome when you are seeking a bit of direction through the maze of ogling crowds or would like to practice your muzungu Kiswahili to a more mature audience other than the captivated kids next door.

Every once in a while a familiar face will pop up in the bustling streets by the market. The Masai man I saw at night wore his traditional gown and played pool at the bar with his brother. Their sabres hang from their purplish-red robes and large gaping holes adorn their sagging ears. He is unrecognizable by day, in his checkered shirt and western carpenter pants. The gap-toothed smile is the same.

He is trying to sell me a CD today, while the night before he sang along to "Happy Birthday" with the musical accompaniment of yours truly (a story that shall be confined to the curvy comfort lines of parentheses: in the memory vignette-clouds of stage fright, I strummed away at an electric guitar, looking awkwardly up at the audience, and managed to croak a few raspy sinusy/jazzy lines of a well-known children's song). Off the bucket list: singing on-stage at a bar minus the karaoke machine. Chocolate cake: the most adequate reward.

I have been here long enough that some will recognize
that I am not china or korea, but just kesho! -- a nickname that seems to stick from our adventures at Meru. But my real goal is to become familiar enough so the vendors know just how I like my passion fruit, like the wordless exchange that exists between the coffee shop regular and the barista. I like it sweet. I like it juicy and not too seedy... like Doug's ex-wives used to say.

Outside of the market setting, having no worries about what the next day has to bring is an attitude that seems to affect many young men. They are interested in making a quick buck. They're excited about the catch of the day, and they would blow off long-term contractual commitments to accept a one-time gig. Not my observations, but our friend Malise's, who has been living here for over two years in a town where everyone knows everybody else and the directions to our house are communicated through neighborhood nicknames (the UN mama, as they all call our host mother).

Be free.

We poked our heads through the gates to look up at a secret mansion on top of a hill off the dirt road behind our house. Would you like to come in? says the brother at the gate. We nod, and step inside to admire the beautiful mosaic tile floors that lead up to the manicured front porch. A mtoto/boy comes home, and we agree he is the chubbiest little Tanzanian we have ever seen. We are sent home with brochures for safaris in the Serengeti.

Be free.
Pili-Pili, in his Christmas toe-socks and sandals, tells me those words as he opens another beer for himself. We sit in silence for a moment, enjoying the refreshing taste of an afternoon beer the day after I landed in Arusha. I shuffled my feet behind the plastic chair so the hen and her chicks could pass through, and breathed in the smoky scent of meat on the grill. The sun beamed down on the tin roof tiles but our corner remained cool.